Jim & Seb
by JayMoore
Summary: Some MorMor drabbles. Non-chronological. Slight fluff. More coming...
1. Coo Coo Cachoo

"James, do you trust me?" Sebastian's voice was urgent and pleading, his blue eyes bored into James' huge brown ones. A couple of seconds of silence passed between them, Sebastian shook James' shoulders, "Do you trust me!" He repeated.

"Yes—yes, of course." James could only mumble.

"Then run." He pushed James out of the way, forcing him in the opposite direction to where he ran himself. James couldn't help himself. He was rooted to the spot, staring after the boy, barely a man, who was running off into the smoke and fire, pulling a gun from his jacket as he went. James wanted to call after him, _chase_ after him, hell, he wanted to do anything but just stand here.

If his eyes were large before, they were much more so now. The explosion had gone off in the building Sebastian had been heading for. Smoke was pouring out think and fast, grey and opaque. Strangely beautiful in a morbid way. James' heart was beating so quickly he was mildly surprised he wasn't having a heart attack; he was also mildly surprised that he could even feel mildly surprised in this predicament.

He was broken out of his panicked reverie when a policeman in an ugly florescent jacket yelled in a thick Manchurian accent. James sprinted then. He fled, literally, for his life. He was young, foolish and naive still, with more money than sense and less power than he wanted to admit. But that was all about to change. If they had killed Sebastian they would pay. They would pay with their lives and their positions. They would pay with their families, friends, and fucking pets if they had to.

At least they would have if a bullet hadn't have lodged itself between his cervical vertebrae.

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><p>The room was dark and cold when Jim's eyes snapped open, throwing him headfirst into consciousness. He looked around only to become annoyed when his eyes wouldn't adjust fast enough. The space next to him was empty. Seb had left then. He'd probably gone home to shower and change and leave Jim behind.<p>

With a groan and a raking hand through his hair, Jim slid out of bed, regarding the dark shapes of his bedroom furniture and trying to distinguish the sweatshirt he had thrown on his desk earlier. He paused before leaving his room, his hand going to the back of his head. There was no scar there, no bullet wound, not even a mark from another incident, but that dream always ended like that. Jim hadn't figured out why yet.

He was surprised to find that his flat was not in fact empty, but still housed a fairly chilled looking Seb, who was sprawled out on the sofa with a book, a glass port, and cafe crèmes. He had headphones on, the expensive ones he had whined about until Jim gave him a bonus so he could afford them (he liked to buy things on his own steam, taking gifts from Jim after all this time didn't feel right), his foot was tapping along to what was no doubt some of the sleazy jazz he seemed to have copious amounts of. Jim had been to his flat enough times to have inspected his record and CD collection; most of his front room was taken up by the collection and his stereo.

Jim waved his hand in front of Seb's face, dragging his attention back from whatever mysterious depths it might have been in, "You're awake." Seb snapped the book shut and pulled his headphones off rapidly.

"Yeah, now that we all have a firm grasp of the obvious..." Jim replied. He hadn't meant to snap, it was just how things came out sometimes.

"Relax, Jim." Seb knew how to handle Jim, it was fine. Jim wasn't as unpredictable as he liked to think he was.

The pair's eyes met for a moment and there was a mutual knowing that passed between them. Jim slumped down onto the sofa, falling into Seb and curling round him like a cat, "I want to be asleep, I'm tired." It was typical that just after Jim had been working so hard, had been running for days on a few hours sleep, that he couldn't sleep when he was supposed to. Seb didn't think people knew how hard Jim pushed himself, how hard he worked to get things done.

Seb had been chief of staff and knew that the people in Jim's employment thought they had all of the hard work, that Jim just made phone calls and sent out orders. It was completely untrue; Jim worked his fingers to the bone finding the right people for the job, gathering intelligence, making illicit deals, and plotting schemes that took _time_ and _effort_. No one realised that.

"What's wrong?" Seb asked, his hand going to cover Jim's eyes; it was something they did together. Covered each other's eyes, blocked out the world, it was just them.

"I had a dream about Manchester." Jim went to trace the thick, sutured scar over Seb's forearm from the incident.

"It wasn't the most successful plan."

"It was good fun getting revenge though," There was a faint smile on Jim's lips, "You should have seen their faces, looking at me through the windows, all of the doors locked, no way out, flames just about ready to engulf them. It was beautiful." However chilling Jim's words were, however macabre and twisted, Seb always found poetry in the Irishman's lilting, singsong tones.

"I'll bet it was. But I was cooped up in hospital." Seb looked at the scar; it was years old now, maybe seven or eight. Within those years, and neither were sure at what point, Sebastian had become Seb, sometimes Sebby if Jim was in a good mood, and James had become Jim, and occasionally Jimmy if Seb felt like being hit in the face. In that time they had progressed from colleagues to friends, friends to the closest friends either of them had ever had, and from that to occasional lovers.

"Shame, shame. I thought I'd lost you for good, Sebby." Jim put his hand over Seb's, over the one on his eyes, "Would you get those pills, darling?"

"Which ones?" Jim had a whole stash of pills, it frustrated him that his body didn't do what he wanted it to all the time, so pills fixed that: when he needed to be calm, he took them; when he needed to be alert, he took them; when he needed to be quiet and still; and when he needed to sleep—especially when he needed to sleep.

"The blue ones."

Seb disentangled himself from Jim and went to retrieve the pills and something to wash them down with. When he returned, Jim had his headphones on and was smoking the rest of his cafe crème, "Having fun?" Seb handed over the bottle of pills and water.

"Who's..." Jim checked the iPod screen, "Plas Johnson?"

"You're kidding me?" Seb frowned, Jim had never liked the same music as Seb.

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't know." Jim's tone was poisonous.

"He's a saxophonist; you know the Pink Panther theme tune?" Jim nodded, "His work."

"What about... King Cole?"

"You've got to be kidding me now, Jim," Jim rolled his eyes, "He's King _fucking_ Cole."

"Look at all the fucks I give, Seb," Jim necked half of the pills and smiled, "You know I don't give a fuck."

"You've just taken a fuckload of BZD's, I think you should go to bed or go to the bathroom. I like this rug." Seb shook his head, trust Jim to do something to make the night more interesting; so much for sleeping tonight.

"It's _fine_, I've a high tolerance now."

"You mean you're addicted to them?"

"Neuroadaptation, it's a good thing."

"I _really_ like this rug."

"It's my fucking rug, if I want to puke my guts on it, I will."

"I will have those guts for garters if you do any such thing."

"I didn't know you wore a garter, Seb, you'll have to show me some time."

"Sure."

"Hey, Seb."

"What?"

"Coo coo cachoo."

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><p><strong>Hello! I'm well aware I should be working on my other fic at the moment, but have some MorMor drabbles! :D<strong>

**First off, I'd like to say that the Manchester Incident is, if you may remember (I know I don't, I was much too young), a terrorist attack by the IRA. I thought about it, and it sort of made sense that Jim would have been associated with the IRA at one point. So yes.**

**Nextly: I know the official lyrics are 'goo goo g'joob', but I've always thought it was coo coo cachoo, so I stuck with that. **

**Lastly, thank you for reading, I'll be posting some more soon! :D**


	2. Belgravia

**This is a little bit short for my liking, but I suppose it's done. Sorry. **

**It's just after the bit in Belgravia when Jimmy fires off a text to Mycroft. :3**

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><p>Sometimes Jim Moriarty just liked to walk around London. He had no destination, only a travel card and his own two feet, booted in Italian leather. He had Seb's aviator glasses over his eyes, shading him from the wintry sunlight, it was chilly and the skies were clear. It would be a cold night.<p>

Jim paused for a moment, he'd received a text from The Woman; that pathetic little woman who thought she was so clever but was really fuelled by her emotions, just like every other woman on the planet. Jim was a little disgusted by her, but even he would admit that she was a damn good shag despite the thin, criss-crossing marks he had over his back now. Once he'd found out her occupation he'd simply _had _to try her for himself.

He fired off another text to the older Holmes brother. The Ice Man—even colder than his younger sibling and twice as smart.

There was a particular ping that indicated an incoming message was from Sebastian that read: 'Parliament Sq'. Jim smiled and twirled around, his coat flaring dramatically. He almost skipped across the street to where Seb was apparently waiting for him. Ruining lives always put him in a good mood.

Jim headed along Bridge Street, opposite to the square, and scoped out Seb. He was sat on the wall closest to The Clock Tower, near the Churchill statue. He walked straight past before crossing over to the square and sneaking up behind Sebastian.

Sebastian was lounging back on the grass, blowing smoke into the cold air. He was wrapped up in a wool duffle coat and a scarf. Jim was about to pull him into a headlock when Sebastian dodged out of the way, twisted round and wrapped and arm around Jim's waist before pulling him down next to him.

"I saw you across the street," Sebastian grinned, "I've been following you since Waterloo." Jim watched people walking by as he leant into the crook of Seb's neck, inhaling the cologne that he'd bought Seb on his lat birthday. Some people were giving them dark looks that spoke of badly concealed homophobia, others smiled with tender tolerance. Most ignored them completely.

"I didn't come from Waterloo." Jim murmured, "I came from St James' Park; the decoy went to Waterloo."

"You're a devious bastard." Sebastian purred, a finger stroking down the side of Jim's throat. "Stop jostling, you're ruining my hair, bitch." Jim smacked Seb's hand away and smoothed his hair down.

"Those are my sunglasses," Sebastian plucked them off of Jim's face and folded them into his pocket, "You wearing anything else of mine?"

"Might be." Jim quirked his mouth up, "Seb, I need you to kill that woman."

"_The_ Woman?"

"Yeah, cut her fucking head off."

"Literally?"

"Meh, yeah, I guess." Jim pulled his phone out of his suit pocket and glanced at it, "We should be off, dear Sebby, people to devastate."

"I was thinking about Italian for dinner," Seb continued casually as the stood and walked towards the sleek, shining Maybach that had pulled up along-side them.

"Sounds good." Jim murmured, already ignoring Seb and typing away on his phone, probably plotting another way to bring Britain to its knees.


	3. Trans Am

**I like Trans Ams. They're pretty. I do think that Jim can drive, though probably erratically. However, for the purposes of this drabble, Jim cannot drive. :3**

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><p>"I want that car." Jim pointed across the showroom to a sleek, black automobile. Seb regarded it with narrowed eyes.<p>

"Jim, that's a 1970's, mint condition Trans-Am Firebird."

"Yeah, and I want it."

"It's thirty-five grand."

"How wonderful. I want it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Pay the man."

"Jim."

"What?"

"You can't drive."

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><p>Seb drove the Trans-Am home, it sounded lovely, like a proper American muscle car: deep, growling, <em>beautiful<em>. Sebastian had a soft spot for such sounds, like the deepest purring of a cello, and the darkest, lowest notes of a Tenor saxophone, those were the sounds that Sebastian could relate things to. He thought of Jim's voice in musical terms too: perhaps a lilting violin and occasionally crashing cymbals, like thunder. When Jim sounded like thunder he could bring grown men to their knees to beg for mercy. Mercy which Jim never gave.

Jim was sprawled out over the passenger seat, the window open to the warm weather, a cigarette poised between his fingers, a subtle grin playing about his lips. Jim had learned that not every day could be filled with murder and malice so sometimes just the sun and a fast car was enough.

The car was second hand, it had to be, would there be anything in the glove box? Jim checked, half hoping there would be some rotting fingers or at least a blood stained note detailing the gruesome death of the previous owner.

There was a packet of chewing gum that Jim swiftly tossed out of the window, the papers of the car: MOT and service records, a perfect history. There was a cassette tape rattling around at the back. Jim held it out for Seb to take a look at,

"Oh, put _that_ on James, dear." He grinned.

Jim obliged silently, switching on the radio and putting the cassette in. A couple of seconds of silence started before there was an A minor arpeggio on a vintage sounding guitar, perhaps a Gibson. Jim smiled, it was pretty. Jim liked pretty, it was why he liked Sebastian. Sebastian was, without a doubt, pretty: blonde, tall, strong jaw, thin nose, blue eyes with the beginnings of crow's feet at the edges. He was lean and strong, with hands that a normal person would take to be a surgeon's or a pianist's, but Jim knew better: they were a sniper's hands, and that made them all the more beautiful.

The both of them had blood on their hands, they could have _washed_ their hands in blood and they would be cleaner. It was what made them right for each other. Not even as partners, nor friends, but as a unit, as a workforce: as a fearsome, formidable company. No one could or would get in their way, anyone who did would be the next basin of blood to wash from.

"What's New Orleans like, Seb?"

"Wet, I would imagine."

"You've never been there?"

"No, why would I've been?"

"You've been everywhere, Sebby."

"You're in an unusually good mood today, James." Seb reached over and gripped Jim's knee affectionately.

"Some beautiful toys are in my possession, Sebastian, why shouldn't I be happy?" Jim stretched out, his expression and tone far from happy.

"Toys, James?" Seb's tone was mockingly offended, "Surely you don't mean myself?" Jim frowned,

"Of course I do." Jim tossed the butt of his cigarette out of the window and pulled his sunglasses out from his suit pocket and slipped them on, sinking further into the bucket leather seats. Sebastian removed his hand, trying not to be offended.

"You don't _own_ me, Jim." Jim decided to ignore Seb's comment and made to light another cigarette,

"Let's go fuck in Richmond park—we can have lunch in Pembroke." Sebastian, without a word, swung the car right the way round a round-about and went the opposite direction back down the road.

The ride was mostly silent, more so when the tape ran out and neither of them could be bothered to rewind it again, and frankly, neither of them had any inclination to listen to the Animals' rendition of 'House Of The Rising Sun' again.

It was as they crossed over Putney Bridge that Jim decided to speak again, "I've made you angry." He observed.

"Yes." Seb replied, it was too late to hide his feelings now, Jim already had every inch of him figured out.

"You don't belong to me." Jim didn't sound particularly convincing, "But I do pay you, and house you, and feed you, and clothe you, so really, you are a little bit mine."

"I'm yours in many senses, Jim, but not in the way you're implying." Sebastian snapped in reply.

"What do you mean?" Jim leant forward, head cocked to the side curiously.

"I mean I love you, always have done, always will, and so in that sense I'm yours." Jim nodded slowly, "But while we're not working, I'm not your _slave_. You can't order me about when we're... off duty, as it were."

"But we can hardly be equals, Sebastian, I'm far more intelligent than you." Sebastian rolled his eyes; it was the closest thing he would get to an apology.


	4. Tomorrow

**Some pre-Richenbach Mormor fluff. **

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><p>"Sebastian," He looked up at is name; it had been about an hour since Jim had last spoken. He'd just been sat in the chair he usually at in, fingers steepled, eyes reflecting the fire, changing the colour from brown to orange in the glow, "It's going to be tomorrow."<p>

"What?" Seb asked despite the fact he knew.

"Tomorrow. It's going to be tomorrow."

Sebastian said nothing for a long while, both appeared to be in deep thought, though only one thing circled Seb's mind: no, not him.

"Jim, don't be stupid—you can't do this over such a pathetic reason."

"_It's not to me!_" Jim roared. He didn't move aside from his mouth, making his outburst all the more terrifying. Sebastian put his head in his hands, sighing, breathing deeply to brace himself for the onslaught that he could have sparked.

"Jim... James."

"Sebastian."

"Listen to me."

"I'm listening." He turned to look at Seb who was perched tensely on the sofa, a book held between his fingers to mark the page he was on.

"You don't have to do this." Sebastian stood, tossing the novel onto the sofa behind him, "I'd like you not to."

Jim lowered his eyes, his jaw working nervously, back teeth grinding, "It's not about what you want."

"It's not what you want either."

"_Look at me, Seb!_" He leapt to his feet, throwing his arms wide as he yelled, "What do I have to show—twenty years I've been in this game, twenty years and nothing to show!" Sebastian faltered.

"I—Ji—James, you..." He stopped, his expression somewhere between confusion, sympathy, and anger. He had no retort, the question had taken him by surprise and his brain was still processing what Jim was saying.

"You can't even answer that, can you?"

"James." Sebastian repeated futilely, "You'll feel better tomorrow." He held onto the hope that Jim was just going through a moment, just a swing, a phase like he did. One minute he was happy as anything, then something, invisible to Seb, triggered him and he was off like a rocket in the other direction.

"There's going to be very little tomorrow."

"Stop it."

"No." It was barely a breath, the lilt in his accent raising the pitch of the word, catching it in his throat. His dark eyes turned up to Sebastian's blue ones. They spoke of regret.

Sebastian fought the urge to reach out to Jim, his fingers twitched with the effort. Jim's expression was emotionless, withdrawn even, the kind of expression that put Seb on edge because it meant that Jim was suppressing something that would boil to the surface and erupt dangerously sooner or later.

"I'm leaving." Seb broke the intense eye contact, starting towards the door.

Jim waited until Seb was at the door, slipping his boots on, before he spoke, "You'll miss me." Seb smiled hollowly to himself,

"Yes, I will."

"Stay."

"No."

There was a moment of silence in which Jim sighed, "_Please_?"

"Jim, you're not pulling this again."

"Of course I am."

"You know I can never really say no to you."

"Honey, get a drink." Jim took his phone out and busied himself with it as Seb attended to the offered drink.

"Glenfiddich or Talisker?"

"Make me some Irish coffee." Jim raised his eyes for less than a second before he was back to his phone. When Sebastian returned with Jim's drink, he was on the sofa, legs crossed, annoying and superior cock of the eyebrow, and fingers drumming on the leather seat.

"Here,"

"Phone's off." Jim murmured as he took the cup.

"Really?"

"My work's done. There's nothing more I can do."

"Don't say things like that."

"It's the truth though."

"Doesn't mean I want to hear it."

"To tomorrow." Jim raised his cup which Sebastian touched with the edge of tumbler.

The night spiralled into intimacy between them, all quiet gasps, sweat and passion of the last night together, grasping at each other's flesh like children in the night, grabbing for a comforting hand.

Jim would never say, but Sebastian could tell: he was scared for tomorrow to come. But for a glorious few hours they forgot that there ever would be another day while the night sprawled so far and so dark beyond them.


	5. Sebastian

**A short one, but what the hell. A little insight into Sebastian Moran.**

**Thanks so much for all of your kind reviews, I cherish every one of them! They really do mean a lot to me, so if you've reviewed or favourited or anything, thank you!**

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><p>He takes the knife to the other man's face with ease that shouldn't come to a human being inflicting pain, nay, agony on another human being. But it is for him, it always has been and it always will be. That's why he was such a good soldier, no qualms about killing, no complaints about the mess.<p>

He was quick and efficient when the time came for it, but when he felt like it he could take his time; his anatomical knowledge was good, he could cut someone so that they were in agony but not losing enough blood to die. The lucky ones passed out from the pain.

And so, he takes the knife to the other man's face, he is an artist, a sculptor, re-creating man in his own design. Something streamlined like a shark, and strong like a tiger, swift like an eagle, and sly like a fox. That was what man's capability was, the _potential_ was there, and every time he saw it go to waste a little piece of his soul died.

His boss pays him handsomely for the work he does, but he would do it for free (of course he never tells his boss that, otherwise he _would_ end up working for free). He only does it because he wants to. He never does anything that doesn't benefit him.

Of course he's made enemies, many of them. They would all take a shot if they had the chance. But he's brilliant. He's got the cross-hairs on them before they've even _realised_ they've made an enemy of him.

It's funny, because there was a time when he thought he might feel sick when looking at someone's insides, when he would have passed out from seeing someone's eye burst and leak fluid down their cheek, and he'd have thought that seeing someone's teeth and nails being ripped out by pliers would have made him vomit. But it didn't. And now he could do those things without even flinching. Without even questioning his morals.

And that was Jim's fault. When he'd met Jim they'd been young, naive; more money than sense and less power than they'd like to admit. It had all changed now, but at the time it made them giddy and messy, almost getting caught multiple times, and laughing when they police sped past their safe-house in the dead of the night. Still laughing as they undressed one another, still rushing off the adrenaline as they fucked, and still as giddy as ever as they waited for their breathing to even out.

They had been very foolish. And before he was an artist, he was just a killer. And killing can't be justified.


End file.
